Every morning, the wind circles my tent like a restless ghost, tearing me from sleep. It does not whisper comfort — it screams a harsh truth: I am still here. Not by choice, but because the occupation drove us from our homes, turning them into rubble and leaving me with nothing but this cold tent for refuge.
My body is here, but my soul never left the place that once held my laughter, my silence, my peace. I miss the warmth of my home — the sunlight spilling through familiar windows, and the small joys I once took for granted: quiet mornings, fleeting smiles, the fragile moments that made life whole.
Each gust of wind reminds me of what we lost, and each night the cold carves its way into my bones, as if searching for the warmth it once knew. Yet even among the ruins of our lives, our will endures.
They took everything from us, yet our memories remain — fragments of life that still warm our hearts, and the stubborn hope we cling to until life returns once more.